


Be Good

by BirchBow (chaoticTenebrism), LaughingStones



Category: Motorcity (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Compromised Consent, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magical Aphrodisiacs, Mind Control, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Supernatural Creatures, Vampires, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-17 16:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18102023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticTenebrism/pseuds/BirchBow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingStones/pseuds/LaughingStones
Summary: Chuck thought he didn’t like board meetings, but he was being stupid, and wrong, and bad. He loves them now, like he should have all along. He knows how to be good, now.Rich seems to like him being good, at first. Then he changes his mind.





	Be Good

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Power Is (As Power Does)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010550) by [BirchBow (chaoticTenebrism)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticTenebrism/pseuds/BirchBow). 
  * Inspired by [Werewolves of Detroit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8365426) by [SpoonerizeSwiftness (SplickedyHat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplickedyHat/pseuds/SpoonerizeSwiftness). 



Ten minutes into the meeting, Grear stops Chuck as he hurries past with a pitcher of coffee in his hands. Chuck kind of freezes in place, because--god, he’s anxious enough all the time at these meetings, but today there’s something in the air, some slight up-tick to the heart rates he’s used to, and unfortunately he’s pretty sure it’s because the Board is excited and anticipating something, not because they’re all about to have massive heart attacks.

But all Grear does is reach up and give the back of his neck a rough squeeze, pulling Chuck’s ear down to his mouth.

“ _Be good,_ ” he hisses, and Chuck chokes a little on the man’s strange, awful, magic-and-chemicals smell and nods hastily. Grear’s hand feels like it’s burning on the back of his neck, weird, sharp prickles, and Chuck just hopes like hell whatever the guy is marinated in isn’t giving him some kind of chemical burn. Ow, fuck.

Grear holds onto him for another second, and then lets go and sits back. “Well, get going,” he says. “I know you don’t want to keep us waiting.”

He doesn’t, jeez. “I don’t want to keep you waiting, sir,” Chuck mumbles, and hurries along to the next chair, resisting the urge to rub at the back of his neck. The burning is fading again, but the back of his neck still feels prickly and gross. Then again, he feels prickly and gross every time Grear touches him, so what the fuck else is new.

Jones holds up his coffee cup for a refill but otherwise ignores him; Webb’s recording screen turns to follow him, of course, but the man himself seems more interested in debating something with Jones about cameras and budgeting. Chuck refills their drinks as quickly and quietly as he can--he doesn’t want to keep them waiting--and then falters a little when Carraway turns to look at him, waiting expectantly.

“...You look all wrapped up in your own head, baby,” says Carraway, and beckons. “You’re thinking too much. C’mere.”

“Coming, sir,” Chuck says, and shakes his head. It would be a lot easier if he wasn’t thinking so much, if he could just kind of check out for this part. That would be nicer. “I am. Thinking too much.”

“I know, darlin’,” says Carraway comfortably, and pulls on Chuck’s arm, coaxes him down onto Carraway’s lap. “You should stop fightin’ what feels good.”

“I should--” Chuck falters on the words, choking on them--something is wrong, something is really wrong about this, but he doesn’t want to start thinking again. He was thinking too much, wrapped up in his own head. And he doesn’t want to make them wait. “I should, let it feel good.”

“ _Good,_ ” Carraway murmurs, and the word feels _amazing,_ it feels so, so good. “What a good, sweet boy. You’re a sweet little thing, darlin’, and we’re gonna make you feel good. It feels good, doesn’t it?” His hand is up Chuck’s shirt again. It feels good. It doesn’t when he thinks too much, but he isn’t doing that now, he has to stop fighting it, how good it feels. He’s a sweet little thing. He’s a good boy. He says it out loud, repeats it, and it feels right-- “I’m _ah_...a sweet little thing, I’m a good boy, _hha,_ it--feels good, _nnh_ , sir--”

“Oh, babydoll,” Carraway says in his ear, half a laugh, and kisses the side of his neck, just barely scraping the skin with a fang. Chuck shivers, neck arching. It feels good. He’s a good boy. It feels good. “We’re gonna have some _fun_ tonight.”

\--

It’s been a long night.

Like, a productive night, Rich has gotten an absolute fuckload of work done, but wow. He just took another stim tab, and it’s gotten to the point where it’s waking his body up but his brain is kind of checked out to lunch. He can tell because he just spent like ten minutes idly seeing how long he can get his fingers, (five inches on the middle one), which is the kind of dumb shifting game he used to play as a kid with his sisters.

He’s leaning back in his chair, all fingers back to their normal lengths, as he spins idly in circles and wonders if he should try to sleep or go work out or what, when somebody taps on the door-frame of his cubicle.

“Buh,” says Rich, and then, focusing, “Uh, yeah! Come in! What--oh! Hey, man.”

“Hey,” says Chuck. He sounds kind of quiet, softer than normal, and there’s something kind of careful and uncertain about the way he’s standing. He looks… kind of roughed up, like he's maybe had an exciting night. Like, his lower lip looks swollen and chewed-on, and there are bruises and marks all over his neck. He’s red enough it drowns out his freckles, and his ears keep twitching and flicking.

“Hi,” Chuck says again, a little breathlessly, and edges forward into the cubicle, brushing his hair back behind one ear for a second. His eyes look a little red, like he’s been crying, but he smiles at Rich, looking about as dazed as Rich feels. “Are you-- Are you busy?”

Rich snorts a little, spins in his chair again. “Oh, yeah, baby boy, I'm just--up to my elbows in work here, like…” He can't think of an end to the sentence. Dammit, he's too braindead to even be properly sarcastic. Snorting again, he picks up, “Like trying to reboot my brain, goddamn. Long night.”

“It was a fun night,” Chuck says, which isn’t really super-related to what Rich was saying, but fuck yeah it looks like it. Chuck edges forward again, licks that flushed lower lip and lets out a breath with a faint little inhuman croon on it. “You took your coat off. You look--good.” His dark eyes flicker over Rich’s chest and arms, back up to his face, and he chews on his lip a little. Shit, no wonder his lip looks fucked up, if he’s been chewing on it with his fangs out.

Rich blinks. “Thanks,” he says, not quite questioning. Of course he has his coat off, he's sitting in his cube, not out where anyone official could see him, and minor detail, it's the small hours of the morning. --And, wow, that is _so_ not the point, Chuck said he _looks good_ , that's--fuck, Rich needs to wake his brain back up, this is ridiculous.

He lifts his arms in a stretch, rolls his head back a little and watches out of the corner of his eye as Chuck's eyes go from the flex of his muscles as he arches, to his bared neck, and linger. “You looking for something?” Rich says, smiling slightly, looking at Chuck slantwise.

The breathless croon Chuck is making spikes up louder--he chokes it off, flushing, clears his throat and creeps a little closer. God, he’s always shy, but this is kind of ridiculous. “I don’t...wanna be, uh…” he falters, makes a little chirping noise and shifts from foot to foot and oh, okay, it’s kind of dim in here but that definitely looks like _something_ going on in his pants, okay then. “...Uh,” he finishes, a second late. “Needy. Uh, pushy. Only if you want, uh…”

Rich snorts softly. “Come here, you dip.” Rich's desk chair is a terrible place either for makeouts or getting bit, whichever is about to happen, so he gets up and steps over to his cot, perches on the edge of it.

Chuck crosses the room so fast he almost slams into Rich, crumples down next to him and gets all snuggled up, pressing up against Rich’s side like he’s trying to attach himself permanently, which is equal parts touching and kind of unnerving. He squirms a little, rubbing up against Rich, and croons some more. He’s got his hands in fists on his knees, not touching or holding on or anything, but he’s pressed up close enough there’s no way to mistake what he’s going for.

“Fuck, man,” Rich murmurs, wrapping an arm around those bony shoulders. “Somebody leave you hanging or something? C'mere,” and he catches Chuck's mouth in a kiss, careful of his fangs. Chuck whimpers into the kiss like he’s already halfway to desperate--he’s not really kissing back, though. Just kind of letting Rich have him, moaning softly into his mouth, panting against his lips. It's not terrible, just kind of weird when Chuck's usually pretty into kissing, and good at it.

“Can I,” Chuck whispers, small and shaking, when Rich pulls away. “I like, it feels good, do you want--me?”

Rich's heart does something odd in his chest. Chuck does have a persistent issue with being unsure of his welcome, but Rich just _said_ , just offered him whatever he was looking for, even if Chuck _wasn't_ already aware that Rich is usually down for whatever with him.

“You can have whatever you want, man,” Rich says, “but like, what's up, are you okay?” His eye is caught by one of the marks on Chuck's neck, and at this range he can see it's a pair of fang punctures. Another vampire was feeding on Chuck earlier, apparently--and not being very polite about it, because now Rich is looking he sees several more freshly closed bites.

“I’m good,” says Chuck, and sighs, presses his face into Rich’s neck for a second, and then pulls away, rolling his lips over his fangs like he’s trying _real_ hard to control himself. “I--was thinking too much, I just think too much.”

Rich has to laugh, the uncertainty subsiding in relief. He's guessing that's about as close as Chuck's gonna get to admitting that he snuck off to Organic Compounds and got a little chemical assistance to relax, which explains the not-quite-coherent way he's talking. Apparently it's having other effects, too, but whatever, so long as he's okay that's fine.

“Well, yeah, baby boy, that's for sure. Don't worry about it, you want a hand? Or you need a snack first?”

“Ah,” says Chuck, half a groan, and runs his tongue over his fangs. “I… Can I--make you feel good? I just wanna--for you, y’know, I want to.”

Blinking, Rich shrugs. “Sure, man, whatever you want. Like I'm gonna turn that down!”

Chuck grins up at him like Rich just made all his dreams come true, glances down at Rich’s fly and back up at him hopefully. Still kind of weird that he’s not taking any initiative on this one, since normally he’s a pretty tactile guy, grabby and handsy and directly up in people’s business, but hey, maybe he’s high enough he’s forgotten how hands work. Rich is gonna make so much fun of him when he comes down. For now, he takes mercy and gets his own pants open, gets his dick out and gets started on that, since Chuck doesn’t seem to remember how right now.

His suspicions seem to be correct, because Chuck just kind of sits there and watches him get himself hard, squirming, licking his lips, his fangs, nipping his lips and then licking the little gashes closed again, hands working on his knees. As soon as Rich is even close to all the way hard Chuck shoots up jerkily onto his feet and scrambles to shove his pants down, which, _wow_ , okay! Apparently they were not talking about Chuck giving him a blow job or something like Rich had assumed. Not that he's complaining!

Fuck, though, Chuck definitely got together with somebody before this, and they clearly got rough with him. His ass is a sore-looking red, like somebody’s been spanking it, and there are marks that look like the beginning of fingertip bruises on his hips and thighs. Rich frowns a little over that, even though it's not like _he's_ never gotten rough with Chuck, not like Chuck doesn't enjoy it. He's a vampire, it's not like he's fragile. But whatever, Rich is allowed to be a little peeved when someone else does it. _He_ knows what he's doing with Chuck, what the guy likes, unlike whoever he hooked up with. Rich wonders if it was the vampire who was biting him.

Rich is about to pull Chuck onto the cot to help him out, maybe grab some lube or tease Chuck with his fingers first, stretch him out--except then Chuck steps back and starts to just--settle himself back into Rich’s lap, reaching back to line up on Rich’s dick and about to lower himself onto it.

“ _Whoa fuck wait!_ ” Rich yelps, grabbing him by the hips and probably adding another layer of bruises. “Chuck, come _on_ , I know you're high but don't fucking break yourself! _Lube_ , remember? Prep, it's a thing!” Although depending how many rounds he's already gone, possibly a less-needed thing, but still, whoever he was with almost certainly wasn't built like Rich.

Which is another thing, actually. “Also, do you want it full-sized or should I shift smaller?” he asks, fumbling for the lube bottle.

“Oh,” says Chuck blankly, and shivers a little, squirming against Rich’s grip. “Whichever--whatever-- _please…_ ”

Fuck, he's so out of it. Rich is gonna have to decide for him, which is anything but fair, because he wants to really give it to Chuck, but if the guy's already been given a going over once tonight that might be too much. Or it might be perfect, exactly what he needs.

Dammit, Rich has never claimed to be a saint, here. He'll get him ready and stay this size, which Chuck has taken before anyway, so it'll be fine.

Rich guides Chuck onto the cot on all fours and pauses when Chuck spreads his legs eagerly. His ass is red and marked up and--there's a telltale shine. Rich runs an exploratory finger between Chuck's cheeks, and finds him as slick as if he'd just been freshly lubed up, okay. Geez, did he _just_ come from whoever left him like this? Frowning faintly, Rich slides that finger into him, and _wow_ , yeah, he's definitely all stretched and slick, maybe even ready enough for Rich's dick, which is saying something.

“Goddamn,” Rich murmurs, sliding a second finger in and rubbing gently over Chuck's prostate. “Somebody worked you over but good, baby boy. When I find out who, we're gonna have words.”

“Hnnh,” says Chuck, who really doesn’t seem to be listening. “Somebody worked me over-- Good, feels--good, _Rich,_ mm…” He arches like he’s trying to grind back on Rich, manages to spread his legs a little further and makes hopeful chirping noises when Rich gives him a third finger, wondering what's up with the weird echo thing. “...’S really good, please, wanna make you feel good, it feels good, please--”

“Fuck,” Rich says breathlessly, “okay! It's okay, I got you.” He hastily slicks up and presses carefully into Chuck, who gives way to the long slow slide a lot easier than usual. Rich groans, all the way in, pulls back halfway and starts moving in the quick rhythm that ought to get them both there fast.

Chuck certainly seems to be enjoying it, rocking back into every thrust and murmuring bits and pieces of shaky nonsense. Rich hears his own name once or twice, but mostly it’s just _feels good_ and _please_ and _good_ , which is a lot better than the weird echo-effect.

Chuck was already hard when he got here, and obviously pretty well worked over, but it takes a surprisingly long time before his voice rises, cracking a little. “I’m,” he moans, and fists his hands in Rich’s sheets, doesn’t try to touch his dick. “I’m gonna, I don’t want to, I’m--”

Rich's rhythm hitches in startlement. He drags in a rough breath and forces himself to slow down some. “You don't wanna what, man?”

Chuck groans, buries his face in his arms. “I don’t,” he says, “don’t wanna be done, don’t--make me, please…”

Rich's eyebrows go up. He knows Chuck likes the edging game, but holy shit, getting fucked by someone, apparently not coming, and then coming here to get fucked by Rich and _keep waiting_ is… a lot. Not a problem, though, Rich can make it take a nice long time for him.

“Okay,” he says, breathless but as soothing as he can. “I won't, don't worry. Here, let's try this.” He pushes all the way in, wraps an arm around Chuck's chest and sits back, pulling Chuck in a gangly-legged sprawl up into his lap. “There,” he says, stroking Chuck's side under his shirt. “You like that?”

“I _nnh_ ,” Chuck arches back against him, breath hitching. Twitches back and forth like he can’t decide whether to press into Rich’s hand or his dick. “I like, that, _nnh_! Ah--” His shoulders are heaving against Rich’s chest, his ears keep flicking and twitching. “Am I, is it good, for you--?”

“Fuck yes it's good!” Rich says, half-laugh turning into a moan as Chuck shifts on his dick. “You're doing great, man, you're good.”

Chuck _melts_ against him, lets out a loud, shameless keen that cracks into a shaky human moan. “I’m, yeah,” he gasps, and he’s _shaking,_ clenching down around Rich’s dick hard enough it has to hurt. “I’m a good, I’m, good, I’m a sweet little _nnh,_ thing, I’m a good...good boy, I’ll be a--”

Rich's hands are on Chuck's hips, getting ready to lift him, to move back into a slow but steady rhythm with him, but that shaky recitation has Rich going still, unease stabbing past the haze of heat and want. Yeah, Chuck's got some kinks, for sure, but wanting to be called a good boy or a sweet thing is a new one to Rich, and he thought he had a pretty good grasp of Chuck's sexy idiosyncrasies by now. And there's something weird about the way it came out, he thinks, something like the way he's echoing Rich's words on and off.

“Yeah,” he says uncertainly, patting Chuck's hip. “Yeah, you're… fine, you're awesome, man.”

“I’m--” Chuck cuts himself off, shudders again. “I’m fine, I’m awesome. I’m good. I’ll be good.”

Rich swallows and takes a deep, careful breath as his stomach sort of wallows over in a slow-motion flip. This isn't a normal high, those don't make you do the echo thing, he's not even sure what _would_ , and--even that isn't all this is. _Good boy, I'll be good_ \--Rich isn't sure anymore if this is something Chuck signed on for or something that was _done_ to him. He's dazed and desperate and needy and trying to make _Rich_ feel good like that's more important to Chuck than feeling good himself, and Rich probably shouldn't panic, shouldn't jump to conclusions here, but he's starting to seriously wonder what the fuck is wrong and who’s responsible for it.

“Okay,” he says, to calm himself more than to Chuck, and runs his fingers through soft blond hair to try to ground himself. His hand lifts the hair off the back of that pale, bruised up neck and Rich freezes.

There's a clear, burned-looking handprint on the back of Chuck’s neck, across his bony spine.

“Fuck,” Rich whispers, brushing all the hair aside and peering closer like he might have mistaken what he saw. He didn't. It's dark red and raw looking, there's no way it doesn't hurt, and Chuck hasn't mentioned it. He apparently thinks nothing of having sex--like, a _lot_ of sex--before getting it looked at by someone, if he even knows it's there.

Okay, _now_ Rich is panicking. He wraps both arms around Chuck and thumps his forehead against the top of Chuck's shoulder. “ _Fuck_ , baby boy, what happened to you? What did they _do?_ ”

He's not expecting any kind of useful answer, but Chuck moans softly and works himself up and down a little on Rich’s dick, making Rich huff and twitch. “...I had a fun night,” Chuck says, “I was, good, I made them feel--it felt good, I had a fun night, I was a sweet thing for him, I was good.”

Every time he says those words, _good, I was good,_ there’s a faint spark on the back of his neck, flickering across the burned handprint. This close, paying attention now, Rich can smell a weird, burning smell with each spark, ozone and chemicals.

“They only had to hurt me twice,” Chuck says dreamily, and grinds back hopefully against Rich. “Please, do you wanna--it feels so good ffff--filling me up, I’m--”

Rich makes a kind of strangled noise and grabs him, holds him still. His mind is spinning, lit up with rage and distress-- _they only hurt me twice_ , what the _fuck_. And the straight-up porn talk from Chuck, who's more likely to be swearing or just moaning and chirping happily at this point.

Someone put a spell on Chuck, some witch decided they were perfectly happy to break the fucking law if it meant they could do _this_ to him.

This is above Rich's paygrade. He's gotta get Chuck to Raoul, he'll be able to fix it.

He's about to lift Chuck off his lap when he realizes the guy's gonna be hard the whole time. On top of everything else, it seems unnecessarily mean.

“Chuck,” he says, hoping to get his attention enough for a coherent answer. “You want to come now, or stop like this? I can get you off, you just have to tell me what you want.”

“I have to tell you what I...want,” Chuck repeats, slow and dazed. Falters. “I… I want. To be...good, and, I want to, not think and...I want, please, I’ll make myself hard for you, again, I promise I’ll be good, I wanna come. Please.”

Holy shit. Rich breathes in, breathes out, stomach twisting. “Okay,” he says, grabbing Chuck's dick, and lets him move again, rocking himself on Rich's dick while Rich jerks him off quick and firm. “You _are_ good,” Rich says, not entirely steadily, but it's not like Chuck will notice, it's fine. “You're good, you've been good, you deserve it. Go ahead.”

Chuck jerks against him every time he says the words, gasps and makes crooning, crying noises--presses a fist against his mouth that totally fails to muffle it when he blurts out _oh thank you oh it feels so good_ thank you-- and comes hard, curling around Rich’s hand, letting out adorable little whimpers Rich really wishes he could appreciate right now.

Chuck goes limp on his lap for all of ten or fifteen seconds, and then a spark shoots across the burned handprint on his neck and he jerks, chest heaving, and reaches down and grabs his own dick as Rich lets him go, hisses softly between his teeth. Chuck's half-sobbing, unmistakeably in pain, but he’s not being gentle with himself, grip rough and motions jerky.

“Shit,” Rich says, and grabs Chuck's wrist. “You don't have to,” he says firmly, hoping. “You don't have to get yourself hard again, it's okay.”

“But I should,” Chuck gasps, whimpers, arches his back. “I’m, good, I’ll, for you, I’m--” He reaches down with the other hand, and Rich grabs that one too, holding onto him. Chuck goes tense in his arms, panting, and then slowly relaxes, a little at a time. “...I don’t have to,” he repeats, later and slower, like he’s struggling with the idea. “It’s. Okay.” He swallows hard, rocks on Rich’s dick again, flinching a little but not slowing down. “But that’s how I look, the prettiest,” he mumbles. “I should always look like, like this, like that…”

Rich is going to find whoever did this and wring the fucker's neck. This is _so_ fucked up.

He lets go of Chuck's wrists to grab his hips and lift him carefully off, pulling out of him. “You don't have to always look _pretty_ , either,” he says roughly. “Whoever told you that was an evil dickhead.” He fishes the hygiene wipes out from under the cot, hands one to Chuck and cleans himself up. His dick is somewhere around half-hard by the time he tucks it away, which isn't comfortable, but at least it's better than trying to shove a full-on Merrill Boner back in there, and he gets his pants zipped without much difficulty.

When he looks over at Chuck, though, Chuck hasn't moved. He's sitting on the cot, clothes still open and pulled askew, hygiene wipe unused and ignored in one hand as Chuck stares like Rich just started speaking a foreign language or something.

“I don’t...have to look…” Chuck repeats, dragging on the words. “He’s an evil--he’s--he’s a--” he shudders, breathing harder and faster second by second. “No it--he’ll, take care of me it feels good, he’ll make, it’s, he’s an evil--evil--he’s got me he’ll take care of me they won’t have to hurt me I’m-- _good_ \--”

His voice breaks on the words and he just kind of crumples in on himself, yanking on his hair, shaking all over.

“Fuck,” Rich groans, and drops back onto the cot to wrap his arms around Chuck. “You _are_ good,” he says, and coaxes Chuck’s hands away from his hair, uncurling his fingers a little at a time. Chuck lets him, but doesn’t uncurl, burying his face in his arms instead and just trembling. Rich hovers, sick to his stomach, and then just settles on petting Chuck’s hair and back, trying to calm him down. Stupid, Rich should've known better than to open his mouth. This spell is a crazy piece of work, it's dangerous, he should've been more careful. “You’re okay, it’s okay.”

“I’m okay,” Chuck echoes back to him, “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m good.” Presses into Rich’s hand on his head. He’s crying, face twisted up and shoulders still heaving like he can’t get enough air, but he looks almost rapturous as he repeats the words, eyes falling shut. “I’m good. I’m _good._ ”

“Yeah,” Rich says quietly. His chest aches and his stomach is a cold, sick knot. “Yeah, you are.”

He pets Chuck a little more before moving him around, getting him cleaned up and his clothes back on right, and then tucks the guy into the crook of one arm and raises a comm screen. He doesn't want to risk whatever Raoul might say to or about Chuck in a call, unknowingly activating the spell, so he just sends a quick message.

 _Someone put a spell on Chuck and he's fucked up. Please come fix it_.

\--

Everything is really loud. Only in Chuck’s head, not outside, outside it’s quiet and still and Rich has got him, supporting him, big arm around his shoulders and a steady voice murmuring in Chuck’s ear. He keeps on saying _you’re good, you’re good,_ and every time it’s a sweet, shivering thrill. Chuck lies there still, shuddering a little, and tries not to let it get him hard again. Rich seemed pretty upset about that, and he thinks Chuck’s good, and it would suck, it would really suck, if he thought Chuck was _bad._ Bad boys get--spanked, and clamped and fucked hard and don’t get to drink, he’s so hungry. He didn’t beg for Rich’s blood and Rich didn’t even _notice._

He doesn’t hear somebody coming, but somebody’s there, all of a sudden, a fast heartbeat and familiar voice.

“Okay, what's got you freaking out--holy shit.” A long pause, as Rich's other hand lifts to gently brush the hair off the back of Chuck's neck. “ _Wow_ , what the fuck?! Shit, okay. This is gonna… take some doing.”

“I kinda figured,” Rich says dryly.

“Raoul, hey,” Chuck mumbles, and twists a little, gropes out a hand, looking for Raoul’s arm. He’s--a good boy, he’s a sweet thing he does what he’s told and he wants it, wants to be touched and doesn’t care who by, they told him so. “Hey I, _nnh_ , do you wanna--?”

“Uh,” Raoul says.

“Shit, I thought I took care of that,” Rich says. “Be careful what you say, okay? Don't, like--anything you say about him, he seems to be--internalizing, or taking as a command or something, it's some fucked up shit, they really did a number on him. Chuck, come on, man, let Raoul work, okay?”

“I’ll let him work,” Chuck repeats for him, even though--he wants to, he should want to, but there’s a twinge of guilty relief in his gut when he settles back down into Rich’s arms. Finishes, late and breathless, “...they really did a number on, on me. I had a fun night.”

There's a pause. Rich smacks himself in the forehead. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I keep fucking it up!”

“Chill,” Raoul says firmly, and hastily adds, “Rich. This is a doozy of a spell, okay, don't get twisted up over it. Are questions okay, you think?”

“I don't know how clearly he's thinking, period,” Rich says, “and I dunno if he’ll say if he’s not okay, or if he’s just giving me the answers he thinks I want. Better than not trying, I guess?”

“Chuck, can I look at the back of your neck?” Raoul asks.

Chuck’s not sure why he’s being asked--he’s good, he does what he’s told and lets it feel good--but Raoul seems to want him to answer.

“Please,” says Chuck, polite. It does hurt, the back of his neck. Only if he thinks about it, though, and he’s getting good at not thinking about things. Rich and Raoul seem upset about...this, something, Chuck, but they’re not telling him what he did wrong, if he did something wrong, and Chuck doesn’t want to ask in case Rich says something...bad, and wrong and awful, again. That hurt _so much_.

He kneels up carefully on Rich’s lap, straddles his hips and leans in hopefully, and Rich wraps him back up and holds him close again, lets Chuck bury his face in the side of Rich’s neck. God, he’s so strong and good, it feels so good when he holds Chuck like this. Chuck likes it even more than he likes it when Director Carraway does it, and he likes it when Carraway holds him, so much. Chuck presses into it and breathes Rich in, makes himself ignore the aching in his fangs. Arches his neck, baring the place it burns.

Fingers brush his hair away from his neck again, slim quick fingers this time, and Raoul makes a hissing sound. With him this close, Chuck can smell his magic in the air, sharp and spicy.

“Seriously,” Rich murmurs. “Are you hungry? You can drink if you need to.”

Chuck moans, longing--he can _feel_ Rich’s pulse, practically taste him, he’s so fucking hungry. But-- “I can drink if I need to,” he repeats obediently, and then falters. “But--it’s not, good boys don’t--” He can barely remember what they told him, there were so many things. So many things he needed to learn. “...’S not c--not cute, when--”

Rich makes a growling sound, opens his mouth and closes it again, jaw clenching.

“Fuck,” Raoul mutters.

“You can drink,” Rich says very carefully, “and still be good. You're good, and you'll still be good when you're fed. Okay?”

The combination of hope and hunger and shivery, breathless satisfaction is enough to make Chuck moan again, louder, abjectly grateful. He hears himself repeat the words, wet and slurred, pressed up against the side of Rich’s throat--kisses his pulse, sucks at it, and then sinks his fangs in as gently as he can and feels hot, fresh blood on his tongue, _alive_ and intense and so, so good. It’s a good thing Rich is so nice, takes good care of him, because if he changed his mind Chuck doesn’t even know if he could stop. Even if it made him bad, even if they hurt him afterward, he doesn’t know if he could stop.

“Okay,” says Raoul, somewhere behind him. “Chuck, stay still. Rich, you just...hold on. I’ve got some analytics, I’m gonna...try some stuff.”

Chuck stays still. Raoul does things behind him, things that make the back of Chuck’s neck feel tingly or achy or burn all over again, but Chuck stays still, and drinks and drinks and drinks. Rich is big, he doesn’t have to worry about hurting the guy, and the more he drinks the more things make sense, the less deafening the noise in his head feels. He’s under a spell. They put him under a spell, to tell him how to be good for them. But Chuck doesn’t need the spell anymore, he knows how to be good now, and Raoul wants the spell to come off, so Chuck should help him.

“Grear,” he says, pulling away for a second, and licks the bite on Rich’s throat shut, kissing it gratefully. He’ll take more again in a second, if they let him, but he has to be good, helpful. “Grear, put. Spell. Argon? Smelled like, hh…” he can’t remember, there were other smells mixed in but he’s not like Mike. His nose isn’t that good. “Argon and, and, things.”

“...Shit,” Rich breathes. “Grear, like _Director_ Grear?”

“He's the only wix Grear I know of,” Raoul says flatly even as Chuck nods, and the air fills with the nose-stinging scent of burning spice. “ _Fuck!_ ”

Chuck winces against Rich, who squeezes him protectively as Raoul whirls and paces the brief distance across Rich's cube, back and forth.

“Goddammit, how are we supposed to protect him against a fucking _director?!_ ” Raoul says. “I'm not a miracle-worker, I've only got so many resources--”

“Hey!” Rich says sharply, and Raoul's footsteps stop short.

“Don't get snippy with me, Merrill,” Raoul snaps.

“I'm _not--_ ” Rich cuts off short and takes a deep breath, arms tightening around Chuck and easing again. “I need to _warn you_ ,” he says carefully, “about what you say. I said… something negative… about that person, and Chuck flipped out. I think it went against some of the stuff they told him before that, caused some kind of internal conflict. You don't want to do that, so I'm just… filling you in, here.”

Raoul breathes out, hard and angry. “Got it,” he says tightly. “Chuck, did--did you say argon?”

Chuck nods. He doesn't know what he did, why they're so upset--things are clearer now that he's got some blood in his system, but there are still things in his head that...don't make sense. Things he can't think about too hard, before an awful distressed confusion starts to rise up in his chest. But he knows what he smelled. “Okay. That's--helpful, that's good to know,” Raoul says. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Yeah, good job,” Rich says, ruffling Chuck's hair. Chuck melts again, grateful and warm and shaking a little. He thought he was bad, for a second, thought he'd done something wrong. But he's not, he's still good. That's good, that's...so, so good. And if he's still good...

"Um," he says, very quietly, and nudges his nose against the other side of Rich's neck, nervous. He wants--he's still so hungry, and Rich said it was okay if he kept drinking, and he's so _hungry_. He hasn't been allowed to drink for days, now, because that's bad, makes him bad, and Director Carraway likes him when he's cute and good and hungry and good and _hungry_.

“Really, you're still hungry?” Rich says, sounding startled. “Go on, then, I've got a few pints to spare.” He strokes Chuck's hair a couple times before Raoul moves in to work on the back of Chuck's neck again and Rich's hand drops to Chuck's back again, out of the way. “What the hell have you been up to that's got you forgetting to eat recently, baby boy?” Rich murmurs, head tilted a little to give Chuck room to bite.

"Mm," says Chuck. It sounds like Rich is talking to himself, but...Chuck's thought that before, and gotten in trouble before. "I'm, not..." he tries, and blinks hard. Now that he has permission it's stupidly hard to keep himself from biting down, to make himself wait and answer. "He says, he says I'm so...sweet, I'm his sweet little thing, when I'm good. When I'm hungry. Makes me good. Keeps me good, when I'm hungry." God, he wants to be touched. He always wants to be touched, all the time, and Rich is so steady and warm and said he could _drink_. Chuck nips gratefully at him, and then bites gently, drinking less fiercely now, trying to make it good.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Raoul says, low and vicious, and Rich lets out a hissing breath and strokes Chuck's back with one broad hand. Chuck falters, torn between the wonderful, warm taste of blood on his tongue and the miserable fear that shoots through him when he hears them angry like that.

“Not you, Chuck,” Rich says, and his voice is tight, but his hands are gentle. “He's not talking about you, everything's fine.”

“Shit,” Raoul mutters, and pats Chuck on a shoulder. “No, no one's mad at you, kid, you're doing great.”

“You're… being good, drinking,” Rich adds. “That's good. Eating when you're hungry is good.”

Every time, it's like a rush of some kind of drug. Chuck relaxes all over, reassured, and chirps happily against Rich's throat, mumbles something about eating when he’s hungry. Raoul's hands are on his back, fingers spread, framing the place Chuck's neck is burning--he's whispering, and Chuck listens, vaguely interested, twitching an ear back. " _Show me_ ," Raoul says, and Chuck winces a little as his neck twinges, but he doesn't flinch, he’s good. " _Show me how you're made_ , show me--" Chuck whimpers at another flare of pain, choking it off small enough Raoul can't hear him--because it's not bad, if Raoul doesn't hear him, he's not being bad, not complaining. Except he forgot he's next to Rich's ear, and the arm around him tightens. Rich's hand rubs his lower back, Rich hums something tuneless and formless next to his ear and squeezes him, and Chuck leans into the comfort, relaxing again in spite of himself. His chest feels so warm and good, fuck.

"... _Y'r so nice_ ," he mumbles, and kisses the place he's drinking from, sucks again, kisses again, relishing the steady pound of Rich's heart. "You're--" he swallows, leans up against Rich's ear and lowers his voice, because he trusts both of them, but--it's secret, he's being a little bit bad, bad enough his heart is fluttering in his chest. "...You're...you're even nicer than, than Director Carraway is."

Rich jerks a little, tensing against Chuck. “ _God_ ,” he mutters. “Yeah, I bet.”

“He’s really nice, though,” Chuck says, a little louder, urgent. It’s important he knows, Director Carraway is so, so nice _._ “He told me, he says I’m pretty, and sweet, and tasty--and _good._ But--you’re even nicer, I like you. A lot.”

“That's--good,” Rich says, like getting the words out is hard. “Glad to hear it.” And then, “Goddammit, baby boy, this _sucks!_ Why are they--what even-- _fuck_.”

“So it was Carraway _and_ Grear,” Raoul says harshly. “I don't how they even found time when they've… they were in a board meeting the whole evening…” he trails off, hands gone very still on Chuck's upper back. Chuck makes an absent, pleased little noise at the mention of the board meetings--he thought he didn’t like them but he was being stupid, and wrong, and bad. He loves them, a bunch of important men paying attention to him, touching him and making him feel good. Even the way Rich and Raoul sound overhead can’t dim that brief, hot glow in his chest.

...No matter how upset they sound.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Rich is saying, sounding kind of strangled, and squeezes Chuck so tight that for a second it's hard to breathe. “That means _Larsson_ was in on it. Not that I thought he'd help, if he wasn't, but…”

“Yeah,” Raoul says. “Yeah. Fuck, okay. God, this is--when I get this spell off, the backlash is going to be really fucking nasty. You better be ready for--however he reacts, I dunno.”

“Backlash?” Rich says nervously. “Like, magically?”

“No, emotionally, Merrill,” Raoul says. “He's gonna--whatever happened up there is gonna come down on him all at once and it's not going to be a good time.”

“Ah,” Rich says, and blows out a long breath, one hand stroking Chuck's back slowly. “Okay. Well, don't disappear right away, yeah?”

Raoul sighs. “Fine, okay.”

None of that makes sense, so Chuck doesn’t think about it. He just thinks about the hand on his back, and how much he loves being touched, and how he wants more--but he shouldn’t be pushy, he shouldn’t get greedy. He’s cuter when he’s shy and sweet, he knows. He was told.

“Grear and his--fucking, chemomancy,” says Raoul, and rubs his fingers slowly, gently, at the burning spot on Chuck’s neck. "--I know that's not a word, okay, but it's what he's doing. Uh, fuck." His hand feels really nice where it touches Chuck's neck, when it doesn't hurt. Chuck arches into it a little, just to show willing, and then remembers that he needs to leave Raoul alone. Raoul's working. Settles back down against Rich to croon softly into his throat and enjoy how solid he feels.

"Okay,” Raoul says. “Well--okay. It's not like I was gonna use this for any spells anyway." He pulls something out that glows softly, a soft, green light against Rich's shoulder. The skin is slick from Chuck's mouth, and the light glints on it mesmerizingly. God, Chuck feels so good. Somewhere underneath he's starting to feel...really bad, but he doesn't have to think about that. Or about why his body is shaking when he feels so good and okay and great and good. He's good. He's good. He'll be good.

"What the fuck is that?" Rich says.

"Neon," says Raoul. "They use it--they used to use it. To make signs and things. It's the same family as argon, but it's...look, it's just the right thing to use, okay? That's how...magic...works." He says 'magic' like it's a bad word, a secret--which it is, but it isn't, but it is, but it shouldn't be. Magic is great. Director Grear is magic, used magic on Chuck, and Chuck feels great. "Hold him pretty still, okay? I don't always know how this is gonna go."

“Got it,” Rich says, and puts a steadying hand on the back of Chuck’s head. His arm tightens a little around Chuck, firm and comforting, and he says, “Hold still for us, okay, man? This might be weird, but it's gonna be okay, we'll take care of you.”

"Neon's a heavier element than argon," Chuck mumbles--his brain's taking the problem, working on it, before he can stop himself. "Could mean it's, stronger, the way magic--" and then he remembers, he's thinking too much, they don't like him to think too much. "...Sorry. I'll be good."

"You're good, you're fine," says Raoul, and presses something thin and cool to the back of Chuck's neck. "Now--"

Chuck can't follow the things he says, and trying to makes his ears prickle and flick. Something tight in the back of his neck is tightening further and further, until Chuck feels like somebody is tying him in a knot and it takes everything he's got to keep still and not thrash away--

And then that something snaps. The tension goes loose, and Chuck falls forward against Rich, gasping.

“Eating when you’re hungry,” he mumbles, not knowing why he says it, repeating the words back. “Eating--when you’re hungry, is good. You can drink if you need to.”

The words sound less powerful as he says them--no, he’s not supposed to drink, he’s good, he shouldn’t have, this is all wrong. Chuck jerks back, then closer again, god, he needs to be _touched_.

“Whoa, hey,” Rich says, hands gentle on him, cautious. “You okay? That's right, you're right, you can drink, that's good.” He pats Chuck, strokes his back up and down. “You did good, holding still, good work. How you feel?”

“I, I’m,” Chuck says, and doesn’t know, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be like. Good, he’s supposed to be-- “I’m, I have to--let Raoul work.”

“Fuck,” says Raoul behind him, and Chuck looks back at him, staring wildly, and sees him reaching into the pockets of what looks like a regular Kane Co. wallet. His hand is totally inside a pocket that looks barely big enough for a couple of fingers. “It’s unraveling, fuck, I hoped it would just break, not-- Okay, just, can you hold him? Are you strong enough to hold him?”

“I, I don't, uh--” Rich starts, looking alarmed.

“They really did a number on you,” Chuck says numbly, and it feels like something that was put into him coming loose, like something painfully imbedded being pulled free. “Whoever told you that was--”

“ _Rich,_ ” Raoul presses, more urgently this time. “Can you hold him?!”

“Yes!” Rich says, wrapping his arms tight around Chuck again. “I've got this, I--we've never tested who's stronger, I don't--but I'll try, I can--I got it! Just--man, just don't let your wings out, okay?” he tells Chuck a little desperately.

Those words pluck at Chuck’s brain, but they can’t catch hold of him like they should. He doesn’t have to care about them. Something is spinning in his head, faster and faster, things are starting to move. He hears himself mumble “--You don’t always have to look pretty you don’t have to get yourself hard again you just have to _tell me what you want--_ ” and jerks again, aimlessly this time, breathless.

Those words were wrong too, falling flat as they come back out of him; he should be ready for Rich and Raoul, he should be hard and eager and cute and pretty and _good_ for them, but Rich is holding on too tight and he can’t touch himself. Chuck whines helplessly and squirms in his arms, fists his hands in the front of Rich’s shirt and whimpers into his chest.

“Shh, it's okay, man, I gotcha,” Rich says, not letting up his hold. “Raoul, it's not hurting him, is it?”

“I don’t--think so,” Raoul says, tight, and puts a hand on Chuck’s back. More smells hit his nose, burning things and weird, shimmering, magic-ozone smells. Whatever Raoul does winds around him and bears him down, like his muscles and bone have suddenly turned to hot wax and lead. Chuck groans at the sudden feeling of helplessness, and whispers _you’re fine, you’re awesome, you like that. Somebody worked you over._

“Chuck,” says Raoul, in a tone of brusque authority that’s only a little ruined by the waver of his voice. “Is it hurting you?”

“I don’t know,” Chuck gets out, breathless and terrified and not thinking and good and confused and just trying to be good. “I don’t know! Go find somebody to make you feel good I don’t _know,_ I’ll be good, I don’t know, no, yes, I don’t-- This is, this is our secret, darling, you shouldn’t tell anybody!”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rich says though his teeth, his fingers digging into Chuck’s back and side, “those sick--fucking-- _damn_ it, they really sent you off to, to find someone to-- _God_.”

“You’d keep us company all night if you could, wouldn’t you?” Chuck mumbles, and presses his face into Rich’s neck, head spinning. He doesn’t--the words coming out of his mouth are going powerless and empty, every immutable truth he thought he knew, one at a time like falling dominoes. He doesn’t know what’s at the end of the chain, doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think, he gets so wrapped up in his own head, thinks too much. “If you’re, if, a good boy, if you’re such a good boy show me you want more let me see you get ready for me _ah--_ ”

The long-belated twitch of pain hits like a jolt of electricity--the feeling of his own hand, desperate and frenzied as a stranger’s, ignoring how searingly oversensitive he’d been. He’d done what he was told, he’d been good even though it hurt every second of the way, limbs all jerking and trembling, face pressed slack and shaky and panting against one of Director Larsson’s knees. His body doesn’t know what to do with the memory; he twitches, grinds against Rich, and Chuck’s still too sensitive but he loves being touched, he wants it all the time. He wants it all the time. Whatever Raoul did to keep him still, to keep him from struggling, he needs it off so he can touch them and make them feel good and be good for them.

“ _Touch--me,_ ” Chuck groans, cracked and too small, shaking, breaking. “Please, please, please, god, _please…_ ”

“It's okay, I've got you, it's okay,” Rich mutters, one hand patting Chuck in agitation as the other arm holds him. “Here, look, um--” He loosens his hold a little, turns Chuck's head with his free hand and kisses him, pushy and distracting. Chuck moans gratefully and lets himself be kissed, pliant and needy, making it clear how grateful he is, trying to make up for the stream of dying words as they fall flat in his mouth.

Bits and pieces of the things he’d been told, the things they’d made clear for him, make it out between Rich’s long, rough, desperate kisses. _You want it, you love it, you’re a sweet little thing, you’re a hungry little slut, aren’t you, boy?_ Chuck can feel Rich and Raoul twitch sometimes, pressed up against him, holding him safe from both sides. He can feel them hold him tighter, a pair of arms and ticklish, burning magic wrapping protectively around him when he echoes _you look good bent over something._ When he finishes, _\--But you look better on your knees._

Rich swears quietly, presses his forehead to Chuck's. “You're gonna be okay,” he murmurs, like he's been saying over and over, low and unsteady. “I got you, we've got you. It'll be okay.”

More truths fall away-- _you’d let anybody touch you, you’re such a tease, baby, you’re a disgrace, boy, you deserve this._ He didn’t, he wasn’t, it _hurt,_ he didn’t remember how much it hurt until now, his ass and his back and the backs of his thighs. He’s not a tease, he doesn’t want it, not like this. He jerks away from Rich’s mouth, gets out “--Nnnh, no, I don’t, _stop_ ,” and Rich stops immediately, doesn’t let him go but doesn’t try to kiss him either, pets his back, holds onto him.

“Sorry,” Rich says, “I didn't--sorry. It's okay, it's coming off you, you'll be alright soon. Right?” he asks Raoul. “It's gotta be pretty much done now, right?”

“It's getting close, I think, yeah,” Raoul says. “It's hard to tell exactly how much is left, but a good chunk of it's already fallen apart. Don't let go yet, though.”

Rich breathes out through his teeth and keeps stroking Chuck's back. “Almost done,” he says to Chuck, ignoring the details. “Just hang in there, man, we've got you.”

“We’re gonna have some fun tonight,” Chuck says, and shudders, feels his eyes sting and doesn’t know why. It was--he didn’t, it wasn’t fun, he didn’t-- He’s unraveling, unwinding, he can feel his whole world trembling like a house of cards in an earthquake. There are hands on him, and it feels good and he has to stop thinking, he can’t stop thinking, he has to just let it feel good, _no._ “I’m, I’m a good, good boy, I’m a sweet little _hha,_ thing, please, fuck, don’t, please don’t, I don’t want--”

“We won't, it's okay!” someone says, and it barely registers. Chuck can’t fight the directors, but he can fight these guys and he does, finally, he fights, half-sobbing with fear. He doesn’t know what they’re going to do to him if he obeys, what they’ll do to him if he’s bad, he can’t bear to think about it and Raoul’s magic is still weighing him down and Rich won’t let him _go_. They have him pinned, he’s too--nobody will be able to keep their hands off him, the Directors said nobody would be able to help themselves and they’ve got him pinned and Chuck can’t fight-- He has to be good, he has to, it’s all there is, he has to _stop fighting what feels good,_ no, _fuck._ “You’re thinking too much you don’t want to keep us get _off,_ stop, keep us waiting--”

There’s something still caught inside him, like a frayed rope almost at the breaking point. Chuck twists and strains at it, growing more and more frantic, taking weak snaps at the arms around him, the shoulders and neck of the body pressed up-- _unwanted warm heart pounding excited to see him squirm_ \--against him. He’s too weak and uncoordinated to do more damage than half-accidental catches with his fangs, getting yelps and hisses of pain but no loosening of the hold on him, no more freedom.

“Please!” he gets out, cracked and keening and thrumming in his ribs, a vampire cry of desperation under the word. “Please, please, _please!_ ”

“Tell me the key!” says an urgent voice, and a hand presses to the back of Chuck’s neck, and he _screams_ as it burns sudden and sharp. “Tell me, I’ll make it stop, but you have to say it!”

“I don’t know, I don’t have, please, I don’t--”

“Raoul, what the fuck!” says another voice. “You're _hurting_ him--”

“ _Say it,_ ” snaps the first voice again, and the hand is still on his neck, still burning, and he can’t resist it any more than he can break free of the arms wrapped around him.

“Be good!” Chuck chokes out, half-sobbing, and gives a shuddering gasp as the tension breaks, as the frayed cord finally snaps. He can’t help but slump forward against the person holding him, mind spinning, buzzing, sore. Limp with relief, with the all-encompassing fear they’ll do it again, work more magic on him, twist him up inside again. “I’ll be good, thank you, I’ll be good please don’t, please, I’ll do anything you w-want, I’ll be, I’ll… I’ll be…”

“Fuck,” says the other voice, says Rich, gasping, and his hand moves on Chuck's back again, stroking. “Baby boy, it's okay, it's _us_ , nobody's gonna make you do anything. You're safe now, you don't have to--be _good_ , you don't have to do _anything_ , just--” he sniffs, squeezes Chuck with one hand, reaching up to stroke his hair with the other. His hands are shaking, Chuck can feel the faint tremble against him. “Come on, kid, you know us,” Rich says, trying to laugh. “We're jerks, yeah, but we're not--we wouldn't--you're okay. Please be okay.” He sniffs again, and when Chuck looks up Rich's eyes are too bright, wet.

Chuck stares at him, wild and terrified, breathing too fast and too hard. The buzzing in his brain is slowly subsiding, he’s coming back to himself, and it feels...bad.

“...Rich,” he says, raw and hoarse. Things are falling together, the blurry mess of the last few hours coming together into something new, something _awful_. “They, fucking, _Grear--_ God, _fuck_ \--” He starts to move, aimlessly, desperately, moving in Rich’s arms, twisting, trying to climb out of his own skin, _fuck,_ their hands were everywhere, he _asked_ for it-- Chuck knocks his forehead against Rich’s shoulder, sobs roughly against his collarbone, furious and shaking and terrified.

“I know,” Rich says almost steadily, one big hand gentle on the back of Chuck's head. “I know, man, it fucking sucks, I know.” His chest expands against Chuck as he takes a deep breath. His arm around Chuck tightens in a hug, then loosens again, holding him carefully, not pinning him in place anymore. “It's okay, I've got you.”

“Do you want me to--do something?” Raoul says, “I could try to--” and a hand touches the back of Chuck’s neck. Chuck gives a ragged shriek and curls away from him, struggling wildly. His wings flare out before he has time to hold himself back, mantling in a desperate threat display.

“Don’t _touch me!_ ” he snarls, flashes his fangs, and Raoul backs up fast, eyes wide, heart pounding sudden and hard.

“Whoa, hey!” Rich says, a hand on Chuck's shoulder. He's not holding Chuck now, not gripping hard to restrain, just a hand shaking him a little. “It's okay, he _won't_ , come on, man, breathe! He won't, we won't do anything. You're okay.”

“They were in my _head!_ ” Chuck screams, voice breaking on the word, and tries to stand, falters, fails, back into Rich’s lap, swaying against him in an automatic search for comfort and then jerking upright again with a strangled whine. Rakes his fingers through his hair, feels a hot sting as his nails catch on his skin. He wanted to be good, he had to be _good,_ he was so sure he wanted everything they were doing to him and now he can’t remember what he knows, what’s real, what’s fake. Does he know these guys or is that another lie, another made-up “truth” to get him to trust them? This spell came off but Raoul is wix, he could’ve--

“No magic,” he growls, and curls his lips back, bares all his fangs at Raoul. Ruins the growl a little by swaying on his feet, struggling to keep his balance as the dizzy fog swirls around and around his mind. “Not while I’m, not when, I gotta think, _no magic._ ”

“I get it!” Raoul says, hands up. “No magic, it's _fine_ , kid, I won't! I wouldn't anyway without asking, but whatever. Should I go?”

“Not yet,” Rich says hastily, and looks at Chuck, putting a cautious hand on his back to steady him. “Unless--what do you need, man? We can get you back to your cube if you wanna be alone…” He trails off, looking dubious.

"I'm." Chuck settles just a little, staring from one of them to the other. His heart is still pounding in his throat--his eyes, suddenly, horribly, are burning with tears again. In the wake of the sudden defensive rage, he feels empty and bruised inside. But...not hungry. He feels full again, and it takes him a long second to remember why. Remember Rich holding onto him, petting his back, letting him drink. He had no reason to do that, unless he did something to make Chuck think they were friends, unless he's playing a long, fucked up game. Chuck eyes both of them, fighting back the tears, trying to run through everything he thinks he remembers. "We're--friends," he says slowly, double-checking, struggling not to let his voice break as the tears push behind his eyes. "That's not--that's true, right, if you fucking--if that's fake, if you put some kind of spell on--"

“Fuck,” Rich says in a choked voice at the same time that Raoul says, “Wha-- _no!_ ” with his face twisting in disgust. “ _Fuck_ no, kid. Shit, I didn't even _see_ you before Rich called me in here, remember? I didn't have a chance to cast a hex on you, even if I would do sick shit like that!”

“We're your friends, man,” Rich says, one hand pressed over his eyes, and sniffs. “We’ve known you since you were a kid, since you were _thirteen_ , that's not fake.” He drops his hand like he can pretend he wasn't wiping his eyes and frowns at Chuck, tired and dismayed. “You… remember that stuff, right? This thing isn't messing with your memory, too, is it?”

"That's what I'm--trying to figure out, okay?" Chuck says, but his hackles are settling down. He flicks his wings self-consciously, suddenly all too aware of them, and then pulls them completely away again. Scrubs at his mouth self-consciously, pulling his fangs back, focusing on making himself look normal again instead of on the ache of his chest. He rakes his hands through his hair, scrubs his mouth again--he can still smell blood, and when he looks at Rich more closely, he suddenly realizes why. There are bloody scratches all over Rich's arms, tears in his shirt, a few shallow, scraped bite marks on his neck over the two neat spots Chuck fed off him.

Chuck swallows, feeling guilt hit like a punch in the gut. It's grounding, focusing, it...brings memories back up. Rich smaller and gawkier, being a dick on Chuck's first day, getting marched in to apologize for it. Raoul walking Chuck patiently through one of his first panic attacks, sitting quietly next to him and working until Chuck calmed down.

"It doesn't--feel fake," Chuck says, halting, eyes still fixed on Rich's bloody arms. His head hurts, pressure behind his eyes as he struggles not to cry. "But--it _didn't_ , when they-- When they had me--" he can remember, dream-like and still way too real, the way Carraway's hand felt framing his throat, the feeling of hands and fangs on his skin, remember wanting it so badly he thought he was gonna die. He'd been _starving,_ but he'd begged to be fed on anyway. _Good boys find ways to be useful._ If magic could do that... "How am I supposed to know if this is real, how am I supposed to know _any_ of this is real, what if I’m still just..."

His voice really does break on those words, cracks into a miserable, quavering little whine and goes silent, and he has to stop and breathe hard for a minute.

“Shit,” Rich mutters, standing up, and tugs gently on Chuck's shoulders, offering a hug. Chuck steps a little closer, falters--trying to remember, trying to be _sure._

“It's real,” Raoul says firmly. “I took the spell off you, those fuckers aren't in your head anymore.” He hesitates, frowning. “Not that that helps if you don't believe me...”

“You’ve fucked me, though,” Chuck says sharply, and jerks away from Rich again, from the hands that pulled him back onto Rich’s dick, the frowning mouth that marked his neck and shoulders. “They’ve all, you’ve _all--_ can’t keep your hands off--I’m just, just--” The room is swaying, spinning, he’s so tired and he feels so _bad_. “I’m just…”

The last thing he remembers is Rich’s arms going tight around him, catching his weight as his knees go out from under him. And then everything goes black.

\--

Chuck wakes up curled up under blankets, sore and stiff and heavy with the dregs of his exhaustion. There’s a heartbeat nearby--strong, slow, steady. Somebody big. Chuck lies still, keeps his breathing steady, and then slides a hand up very, very slowly and shifts the blanket away from his face, cracking an eye open. He's in a cubicle--not his, but not unfamiliar. A poster on the wall, a meticulously-kept hoverboard leaned against the desk. A broad figure, sitting with a fan of screens up, typing slow and steady. Rich's cot, Rich's cubicle. Rich, slumped at the desk, mouth pinched, eyes red and a little puffy. Somebody has put stick-on bandages on his neck and his arms, and Chuck feels a pang of guilt a second before he even remembers--clawing, snapping, snarling. A spike of something weird carves into Chuck's stomach--fear and paranoia mixing dizzyingly with relief and guilt and shame. He shifts a little, trying to slide upright silently--and then flinches with a sharp, involuntary whine of pain. Feels bruises throbbing on his hips and thighs, his ass sore from--god, from getting fucked and spanked and then fucked again. He's hungry again, too; the drain of healing after getting worked over that hard has to have put a pretty vicious dent in the blood he drank from Rich...whenever that was. Last night, yesterday, a few hours ago.

Rich's head whips around at the pained sound and he stares at Chuck. His shoulders are tight, his whole body visibly tensing, and he looks stressed and miserable, almost _scared_.

“Hey, man,” he says in a hoarse rasp, and twitches in startlement at the roughness of his own voice. He clears his throat and swallows. “You, uh, you feeling any--how you doing?”

 _Everything was a lie,_ whispers the hurt, betrayed part of his brain, soft and insistent, _you can’t trust any of them you can’t trust_ anything, _everything you thought you knew is a lie--_ but things are clearer now, and he’s…remembering some things. Grear’s hand on the back of his neck, the way it burned. The way things spiralled after that.

“Hey,” says Chuck, in a tiny croak. He kind of can’t handle how Rich is looking at him, like Chuck might go for Rich's throat at any second, and like Rich thinks he'd deserve it. They were friends, they _are_ friends. And Chuck--oh, shit. God, what did he say? It’s all a fast, awful, terrified blur. “I, I’m, good--” the words feel like they burn his mouth. Chuck flinches, swallows hard, manages, “I’m sorry. I’m--really, really sorry.” Before he can stop the words, “--I’m, bad, I was a bad-- _Fuck._ ” He puts a hand over his mouth, breathes until he can control the lingering impulse, the leftover desperate scraps of words he hates and thoughts he didn’t want. Looks up at Rich and hopes the apology in his eyes is enough.

“Aw, baby boy,” Rich sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. When he looks at Chuck again the fear in his expression has faded, leaving only stress and concern.

“Right, well, me too. I'm sorry I didn't--fucking _think_ before just falling into bed with you when it was _obvious_ you were out of it, I mean I thought you were high or something but I should've _checked_. And like. Not just taken things at face value, fuck.” Lips pressed together, he meets Chuck's eyes. “You were right, I fucked up bad. I shouldn't have touched you. I didn't mean-- I'm really fucking sorry.”

"No," says Chuck, and then "yeah, it's, I'm," and then "I wanted it, I wanted--so much, it's okay. It was okay. It was good--" Every time he says that word it _burns_ on the back of his neck, a fresh reminder of everything he did to be "good". Chuck sniffs hard, picks at his hair. Flinches as he catches sight of his hands, the dried blood on his fingers. He already knows, but the smell--fuck, it's gotta be Rich's, Rich's blood under his nails. _Fuck_. "You didn't fuck up," he gets out finally, fighting to keep the words in order, dizzy and miserable. "You're great, you're fine, you did-- You didn't do anything. Wrong."

Rich lets out a long breath and quirks him a not-quite smile. “Okay, man,” he says quietly, obviously disagreeing but not interested in an argument. “You…” He stops, bites his lip. “You still don't look so hot. You need anything? A, a hug, whatever?”

Chuck does, so bad, but he doesn’t _want_ to need one, but he needs one really bad, and he doesn’t know if he can explain that without saying something stupid.

“...Fucked you up last time,” he says, mumbling, and picks at his nails, grooming the blood off his fingers with intense focus to avoid looking at Rich’s face.

“Yeah, well, last time you were coming off a pretty nasty hex,” Rich says. “You weren't really in your right mind, so.” In his peripheral vision, Chuck sees him shrug, and then get up and move closer. He hesitates before sitting down on the cot, leaving a little space between him and Chuck, and puts a hand on Chuck's shoulder. “...This okay?”

Chuck manages to stay in place for about two and a half seconds, fighting with himself, before he gives in and dives over across the cot, grabs hold of Rich and plasters himself to the guy with a grip so tight Rich huffs and then groans. Chuck pulls, too upset to bother controlling himself, and half-drags Rich over to him before Rich gets the idea and moves, letting Chuck huddle into his arms.

Chuck isn't crying, it’s not that kind of awful, just--whining faintly, keening, like an animal in pain. He can hear himself, distantly, and he knows it’s gotta sound...weird, and freaky and terrible, to a normal person, but he can’t make himself stop.

Rich just holds him and strokes his back and his hair, murmuring low comforting things, “Shh, it's okay, man,” and “I know, it sucks,” and “I got you, I'm here.” He's not quite as good at it as Liam, but he doesn't stiffen or try to get any distance between them, and he doesn't wince at Chuck's weird inhuman noises.

The only thing he does do, gradually enough that it takes Chuck a few minutes to notice, is get _bigger_. His arms wrap around Chuck farther, his hands span over more of Chuck's back and cradle the back of his head in one massive palm. Chuck’s never felt small before, not physically, but he’s wrapped up completely and it’s-- _warm._

Slowly, the panic starts to subside a little. The whining starts to subside, and turns into shaky little chirps, and then into slow breathing.

“...I’m okay,” he says finally, soft and unsteady, but he doesn’t really try to pull away. It feels so stupidly fucking _safe_ here, with one huge hand pressed between his shoulder blades and one stroking his hair. “I’m, I’m fine, now, I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” Rich says quietly, and doesn't stop, just loosens his hold enough to make clear he'll let go if Chuck wants to move. “Good, glad to hear it, man. You had… kind of a rough night, so.” He runs his fingers gently through Chuck's hair. Some small, animal part of Chuck’s brain purrs--he presses a little closer, reaches up and cautiously peels one of the bandages off of a bite-mark on Rich’s neck. Rich goes kind of still and tense as Chuck nuzzles against his neck and gives into the urge to lick it clean. The skin tastes like antiseptic, but it soothes something guilty and pained that’s still twisting up Chuck’s gut, cleaning the marks he left.

As Chuck moves on to lick clean another bandaged scrape, Rich slowly relaxes again, and as slowly starts to shrink back to his normal size. “You, uh, you still hungry?” he says cautiously after a minute.

Chuck opens his mouth--falters. He...is, he still is, but he already drank so much from Rich, and that’s not the _point_.

“...I could eat,” he gets out finally, a little strangled and stupid, that’s such a _stupid_ thing to say. “I mean, I’m fine. You already--I’m okay.”

Rich gives him a pointed look, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, baby boy, that sounded real plausible. I'd offer, but like you said, yeah, I dunno how much I've got to spare right now. But since _you_ won't fucking bother to ask anyone until you're half-starved, _I'll_ be happy to call someone to come donate a pint or two, okay?” He lifts a hand, raises a comm screen. “Anton okay?”

“Yeah,” Chuck mumbles--reaches out and snags Rich’s hand, pulling it away from the comm. “Not--can I, uh…” His face flushes hot, he feels his ears flick self-consciously. “...Can we just. Like this, for...for now?”

Rich looks startled and then tightens his arm around Chuck, puts the other hand back in his hair. “Yeah, man, sure,” he says softly.

The grateful little chirr makes it out before Chuck can hold it back--and, fuck, why not, if he’s already embarrassing himself. “... _You could get big again,_ ” he says, barely audible, and bumps his forehead against the side of Rich’s neck, hiding his burning cheeks.

Rich laughs a little, ruffling Chuck's hair. “Yeah, baby bat, I definitely could. You make the cutest damn noises, god.” This time he does it fast, expanding next to Chuck, against him, hands spreading wider, torso stretching taller and broader. Then he pauses.

“Hey,” he says, sounding uncertain, and something shifts in Chuck's peripheral vision, something warm brushes against him, folding around him. “Is this… better?”

Wings, Rich just shifted himself _wings_ , each one a massive span of skin even paler than Chuck's, stretched out over long finger bones, powerful muscles rippling. Of course even his wings are built when he has them, Chuck thinks vaguely, but he's intensely distracted because they're also wrapped around him, close and safe and warm. He makes a croaky, human noise, and then a breathless vampire one, chirping and chittering happily, fisting both hands in Rich’s shirt. His own wings manifest, wrap around under Rich’s, shift and catch gently against them.

“You’re, so,” he gets out, and then his voice breaks again, practically purring.

Rich ruffles his hair again, smiling. “Aww, I got the happy baby bat squeaks. I'm gonna take that as a yes, then. Cool. I got you, man.” His other hand strokes slowly up and down Chuck's back, his wings shifting just a little in rhythm with the movement.

Chuck needs to eat, and work, see the department, he needs to put his life back together. But he doesn’t need to hold himself together right now. Right now he’s safe, right now he’s held, right now he doesn’t need to do a goddamn thing.


End file.
